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This is a question Public Transport Trauma

Completely Underwhelmed writes, "I was on a bus the other day when a man got on wearing shorts, over what looked like greeny grey leggings. Then the stench hit me. The 'leggings' were a mass of open wounds, crusted with greenish solidified pus that flaked off in bits as he moved."

What's the worst public transport experience you've ever had?

(, Thu 29 May 2008, 15:13)
Pages: Latest, 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, ... 1

This question is now closed.

I'm the one on public transport
that always ends up having to sit next to the shifty sex-offender looking bloke with the bottle glasses and the overcoat and the shopping bags, not least the guy who used to be on my Italian course at uni and openly told me he was obsessed with Dante and that he'd spent the previous night watching a movie about a porn star trying for the world record of men shagged in 24 hours and his landlady had called him a dirty old man. Eww.

In other news, I'm rereading the Housemates from Hell QOTW because if my own don't stop playing Bomberman, with the sound effects that sound like putting a weasel through a mangle, I'm going to choke a bitch. I'm settling for putting my earphones in and listening to loud Judas Priest but I fear if they don't stop I may become a bus nutter.
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 19:57, Reply)
Its BACK!!
Thank god - I have done my entire weeks work - and its only Tuesday - Feet up, kick back and B3TA away

Anyone done anything productive that they would not of normally done wihile B3TA was down

Are there any clever economist who are willing to take a stab at how much Britains productivity increased for the two working days that B3TA was down?
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 19:55, 5 replies)
It's nice to be back
Unfortunately I don't have anything to report following our trip on the train to Edinburgh. The trains were on time, not a drunken Scotsman/woman/chav/anyone in sight (well, OK, us on the return leg as we'd been in the pub all day), no altercations with the ticket inspectors.

Apart from the sweary one decided to moon our mates as they got off the train at their station, in a carriage full of passengers.

Honestly, I know she's immensley proud of the tattoo of the Pink Panther on her arse, but they've seen it before...
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 19:42, 5 replies)
My good friend Martha was sitting on the bus casually observing a man in a very large coat. All at once he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, live bird.

He held it in his hand for a moment, and put it back.

You just never know.
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 19:42, 1 reply)
When I had just the one son I tried the working mum thing, I was rubbish at it and missed my son so much it hurt. To top it off my boss was a total bitch, sending me to night school to sit among people being taught how to add up money. I have Maths A-Level and nearly a Physics degree (aforementioned son interrupted that one), the last thing I needed was to spend 3 hours after work being told how to add £1.52 to £2.41. It also meant I ended up on the last train home from London most nights.
At least once a week I'd have to deal with someone masturbating on the train near me.
I quit that job in the end, it was not worth the £200 after childcare/travel I was earning a month.

Last Wednesday was a bit of a pain actually. I went to see Maximo Park (great gig) but the whole bridge falling down thing meant I didn't get home until nearly 3am as Liverpool St had closed.
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 19:36, 1 reply)
On Sunday evening I went to a gig in Birmingham.

Ordinarily the voyage to Birmingham from my abode is not a particularly difficult one, with a bus followed by a short hop on the train, both of which run at roughly fifteen minute intervals.

Being Sunday, they would probably be less frequent, I thought, but they would still actually be running. How wrong I was.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been on a Rail Replacement Bus Service, but let me assure you that the word 'replacement' needs qualification. It’s going to take about twice as long, it’s going to be horrendously crowded with almost no space for luggage, it’s going to feel a lot like you’re on a school trip and the driver is probably going to look like he’s followed the well-trodden career path of member of the Rolling Stones to Pirate to Rail Replacement Bus Service Driver.

There were no signs at the station indicating where to stand depending on where in the magnificent Midlands you wanted to go. There was one surly man in a high-visibility jacket, who looked like he probably had the job satisfaction of a Ryanair stewardess, who irritably shouted at people until we were all standing in roughly the same place. Naturally, the bus didn't stop there.

Eventually I did get to Birmingham, via every pile of rocks by the side of the track that passes for a station (where, of course, nobody got on or off) and, well, my time there is for another QOTW.

Several hours later I, of course, had to take the Rail Replacement Bus Service home. The last one of the night. With about a hundred other people. Thanks to some anticipation and careful pushing I managed to make it onto this coach, leaving several dozen people outside, and, for reasons I will never truly understand, I chose seats near the back in very close proximity to some loud drunk chavs who had been hitting the town, or whatever. I wish I could remember more of what was said, or perhaps simply more of the noises they made, but I do recall the word "knickers" being used with startling frequency, and at one point a pensive one asked "Would you rather go to Ibiza or Malaga?". This felt even more like a school trip.

An hour or so later I got back to the original station and waited almost an hour for the last bus of the night, before giving in and sharing a taxi back with some other stranded people.

I wish I could drive.
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 19:33, 1 reply)
The last bus from the seaside.
Seeing as I'm from Dull (sorry, typo again), me and my g/f of 16 months (now wife of 12yrs) decided to skip college one afternoon in 1991 and get the bus to the nearby piss-poor resort of Withernsea. "Come to Withernsea, as the last resort" should be the tourist board's tagline.

They claim it's been improved over the last few years, but tbh, the only improvements I've seen were in the form of renovating about an acre of parkland which is flanked on one side by hideous bemusement arcades with missing letters from the hoarding with it's peeling paint. On the other side is a large Edwardian public toilet block (as in building, not those yellow or blue things you see in urinals).

Anyway, digression aside...

Anyway, after spending a few hours in the lacklustre resort, feeding on scabby chips, burgers with less meat in them than Linda McCartney's toilet bowl and sticking 10p coins into 'Outrun' (possibly the most modern arcade game they had), we boarded the bus and went home.

As the bus went its merry way down the dark roads, we were feeling slightly horny. There were only half-dozen people upstairs apart from us, and they were sitting near the front. So we went to sit at the back for a bit of "hows-your-father". For convenience sakes, I sat on the back seat, in one corner. I got my todger out, she pulled her jeans and knickers down and sat on my lap with her back to me.

Being behind the second to last seat meant that if someone got up to get off the bus, she could slide to one side, and we could still be concealed while they went downstairs.

So, she's bouncing away, having a great time.
Several minutes later (being a teenager having sex in an unusual place meant I wasn't going to last until we reached Hull) I was about to blow my beans.

Seconds before I did, some clown with a deathwish had tried to overtake the bus on the twisty East Yorkshire roads. However, there must have been a car coming the other way as there was a loud screech of tyres.

This gave everyone else on the top deck a good reason to turn round with mutterings of "What was that noise?" etc. Obviously they weren't going to see anything out of the back window of the bus, upstairs, at night.

What they did see was the look of horror on my girlfriend's face, and over her shoulder my gurning, vinegar face.

Everyone turned back round rather sharpish as she slid off my lap frantically pulling her trolleys back on, dripping warm spunk on the bus seats, whilst I sat there trying to stuff my still rigid, twitching and dribbling tool back into my jeans all the while giggling like a buffoon.
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 19:32, 3 replies)
Passport Woes
You know, I had a similar experience, but on the UK side of the Pond. It was 1998 so the security at airports was still a bit weak. I had left one job to start a new firm and decided I needed to 'clear my baffles' before setting back to work.(does that have a different meaning to ya'll? Over here it means to relax and recover) I figured a trip to Ole Blighty was a perfect idea.

Until I admitted on my Customs form that 1) I was a stockbroker/investment banker and 2) I was presently not 'really' employed.

Apparently, those two are akin to "I hate England, allah Ackbah" being tatooed on your forehead when you walk through Customs.

The not so nice gentleman that greeted me looked over my card and re-asked me the questions on the card: I said "Stockbroker/Investment banker" and "No, not "Technically" employed" when he got to those two inquiries.

It took me two hours (and change) to get out of there. The irony was: my PRIMARY reason for the trip was to secure some prints of a Victorian artist known as "Lady Butler". Her most famous work is "Scotland Forever" and various scenes from the Battle of Waterloo and the Crimean War. Brilliant painter.

So, when I tell the guy this, he says "Never 'eard of 'er" and thats that. He walks out of the room.

Great: now he thinks I am some kind of art theif.

As it turns out, at that time, American Stockbrokers were coming over to the UK and scattering into the country side, illegally selling stocks to unwitting UK OAP's AND (now this is uncomfirmed) doing strange things with sheep.

When I WAS finally released I was told "If you change your 'otel, give us a ring. 'Ere's the number."

I spent the remainder of the vacation wearing a fedora and trench coat, and doing switchbacks on the buses and trains in an attempt to lose whoever was assigned to tailing me! What fun!

PS (I got the prints too!)
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 19:11, 6 replies)
b3ta proper is back.

I've done all my transport stories, but I made a badge... feel free to recolour etc, it was a quick job. Um, yay?

(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 19:07, 18 replies)
Is a Taxi public enough?
I have the greatest of respect for taxi drivers - I couldn't do their job, especially on the weekend nights.

However, there are always the bad apples in any job. I just seem to occasionally pick the wrong taxi.

Many years ago, London. En route home from Milan, landed late at night at Gatwick. Got the express to Victoria, out into the London night. It was pissing down. We had a hotel booked, but not the faintest idea where it was. So we jumped into a taxi, gave the driver our destination. As you do.

We were subjected to the most vicious barrage of abuse because where we were going was "ten minutes' walk" away. It was late, it was raining and we hadn't the foggiest where to go. I told the driver in no uncertain terms that I'd make a complaint to the Licensing Office if he didn't shut up and drive. He proceeded to chuck the taxi around like it was a rally car, and braked with enough ferocity to make a squealing noise. When we arrived at the hotel a few minutes later, we made sure that he got the exact fare. Not a penny more, not a penny less. The first time in my life I haven't tipped a taxi driver.

More recently, Edinburgh. Friday night, after a works' party in one of the better hotels. Can't face trying to find a taxi, so I ask the hotel concierge to get one. Which he does. All is good, until I get in the taxi. The driver asked for a destination and set off. The long way. I pointed this out, and told him to get back on the normal route quick smart. He was not chuffed. We then had a repeat of the rally-style school of taxi driving, and, you guessed it, a repeat of the "I'll be buggered if you're getting a tip mate" scenario.

As a contrast, I've had drivers helping me in and out with the buggy, offering help inside with shopping and one who should have been on stage at the comedy club. I was tempted to ask that guy to go the long way around, it was like a personal audience with Billy Connolly.
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 18:58, Reply)
Why Certain American Fat Mums Are Single
Imagine the scene, a long haul flight to Las Vegas, on the one side of the aisle my mate, his wife and her friend, on the other side of the aisle, me in the aisle seat, a large mum in the middle and at the window seat the sort of American brat who gets picked on deservedly in American comedies. The sort of kid who gets picked to play Bethlehem in school nativities.
The plane takes off and straightaway the little probably literal bastard starts to kick off that he's hungry. Cue the sumo mum asking if I can get his rucksack out of the overhead locker. Bear in mind the plane hasn't levelled off and the seat belts signs are still lit up. He doesn't take waiting a few minutes very well and starts to compalin very loudly that he wants his 'candy' and now.
The plane levels off, the seat belt signs go off with a 'ping' and within split seconds she nudges me to get his tooth decayers out. There are 2 rucksacks, one seems to have a bowling ball in it and the other probably a compressed dead elephant by the weight of it.I pass the nearest one down and BINGO the little shit's a happy boy, so i put his bag back up and try to get comfy again for the flight to paradise. Not easy with one arsecheek floating surprisingly pert in the aisle. Ten minutes later he wants a drink so she gently nudges me to get a drink down for him. This time it's in the bad furthest in , wedged in tight. After a bit of wrestling and tugging I get it free, pass it down, she gets his drink out and I put it back in the compartment again. She passes him his drink, he opens it and she gets soaked. She blames me for shaking it up while the kid laughs like a date rapist leaving the scene. I give her some improvised crap about air pressure and she apologises and forgives me. Yeah big deal. By this time my three mates the other side are in hysterics and as they are about to eat some food of their own offer some to me. Big mistake. They said my name, and I still haven't forgiven them. She hears it and uses it to strike up petty conversation and uses it to the point where I'm seriously toying with changing it by deed poll.

'So Steve, where are you from Steve?'
'Been to Vegas before, Steve?'
'Steve, is there a Mrs Steve?'
And so on (ad infinitum)

Then after the little piglet has wolfed down both his and her meals it's entertainment time. No screens in the backs of seats, just a few small TVs peppered around the aisles on the ceiling showing some cheesy rom-com. I don't mind, at least it'll shut her up.

Until Augustaus Gloop next to her decides he doesn't want to watch this and wants his portable DVD player...

'Steve, can you get his DVD player out for him, please Steve?'

After much silent cursing and rummaging around I pass the rucksack down and he gets his precious gadget out. I put the bag up yet again and settle down for a snooze.......

'Steve, can you get up? I think you're sat on his headphones.'

I get up. I'm not.

'Can you get out in the aisle so we can check the floor?'
By now I'm getting really pissed off, and we are only about 90 minutes into the flight. She checks the floor, and wakes the people in front to ask them to get up and in the aisle aswell. The people behind were awake but they had to aswell, all because of this obnoxious little doughnut with limbs hasn't reached puberty and will watch anything with Kate Hudson in it.
Eventually he found them. He forgot he'd put them in the magazine flap below his tray. He's happy now, so I'm happy I can have a snooze.
10 minutes later she gently whispers in my ear (something i NEVER want to go through again), 'Steve, can you put his DVD player back up for him? The batteries have died' Personally I wish something larger and closer to me would have died instead.

Eventually I got to sleep, only to be woken by her informing me, 'Steve, we are now flying over the biggest lake in America'.


The words 'fuck off and die' are seconds from my lips. I just murmured in my fake state of hibernation and thank fuck she left me alone for the rest of the flight.

I don't hate anyone because of their size. I hate awkward, rude, brash pachiderms with no mothering skills who don't say 'Thank you' just once for the inconvenience they put others through.

Length? Fair, Width? Let's just say she has moons orbitting her
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 18:53, 2 replies)
Tube of doom
On the tube from Kings Cross, about 7pm on a Friday, prime time for the guys who have been down the pub since lunchtime to think about moving.

Bloke in a cheap suit gets on, clearly the worse for wear. It becomes quickly obvious to all in a ten metre radius that eight pints of gassy lager and an ill-advised kebab are about to make a sudden reappearance. The guy is holding on for dear life, staring at the door, willing the train to stop so he can run and puke somewhere more discrete (don't you love drinkers with class?). But....as the train slows down at Russell Square, it stops but the doors don't open. The train starts to move again.....and now our hero can't hold it, and out it comes. Fucking everywhere......

Being English, no-one says anything, and as the train pulls into Holborn, he does a runner, leaving about 40 people pretending that there isn't a pile of puke all over the floor and/or their trousers.
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 18:52, 1 reply)
Last time I was in That London
Was for my 21st party. DarkSideOfTheSpoon, Todd the Groincrusher and I were going from Hayes and Harlington up to Highbury and Islington, via tube and train.

By the time we got to Paddington, we were utterly lost. No worries, says the lovely, helpful, London Transport uniform clad bloke. 'Take the circle line to Kings Cross, then the Victoria line to Highbury'. BRILLIANT!

So off we fuck onto the circle line. By the time we got to Euston, we were told the Victoria line was out for the weekend. Fucksocks.

So we end up having to get the Northern line to the Angel and the fucking bus up to Highbury and Islington.

The bloke must have bloody known!

Also, we met a leprechaun lookalike with what we assumed to be some sort of elephant legs, in plaster. Very gammy looking. Anyway, he was fucking plastered, shouting loudly about the war and other stuff.

I was over 2 hours late, and very pissed off :/
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 18:11, Reply)
Can someone please tell me...
How do people over 5 foot tall manage on long haul flights. I went to Thailand a few years back and being 5'11" and built like a brick shithouse I was totally uncomfortable and restless the whole way there and back. My best friend wants me to visit her in New Zealand at some point in the future and I am aghast at the idea of sitting in a plane for 24 hours feeling like a very big sardine in a very small tin.

And don't get me started on aeroplane veggie food.
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 18:04, 17 replies)
Thanks a bunch- London to Kent lady....
The woman in my carriage had drunk approximately twenty cranberry flavoured Bacardi Breezers on the last train back to Kent from London. I knew this, because she'd thrown up and her boozy vom was dribbling between my legs towards the back of the train.

I could smell everything she'd eaten and drunk at her office Christmas party, then heard as the middle aged amateur drinker hit the chair in front of me with a Thunk! Her skull clonked against the window. She was passed out, and only I could help her.

I was tempted to leap off at Bromley and disappear into the night, but somewhere between Beckenham and Shortlands I discovered some kind of responsibility for this quite overweight, unconscious woman whose tongue was now lolling out.

There are nearly forty stairs at Bromley South station. I carried her up all of them and approached the cab rank. Obviously, no cab driver wanted anything to do with us. Now eager to get home, I waved twenty quid at one driver, who I persuaded to take her home. I felt a bit good about myself.

On the back seat, I revived her enough to get her address out of her, and luckily it wasnt too far. Mr Driver sighed and I slammed the door shut. Just then, her pale face appeared at the window, and her grubby hand pushed down the sliding window. I thought she was going to thank me.

Instead she threw up a pint more cranberry sick juice, some blood, and a dash of bile, over my shoes, as the cab tore away into the night.
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 17:50, Reply)
One screw changed my flight...
And not necessarily for the better...

While I’m deeply, deeply mistrusting when it comes to air travel, I am also still very excited by it. However, I am also very, very naive. I had thought, in the more innocent days of 1997, that the turbo-prop engine had all-but disappeared from the world of aviation. Sure, solo flying enthusiasts up and down the country were regularly buzzing about in their single-engine steeds, but for us mere plebs who had to rely on chartered carriers; it was jet engines all the way.

For some reason, I’d decided to fly to Denmark that summer. Usually, I’d have got the ferry from Harwich straight to Esbjerg, or if I flew I’d fly straight in to Jutland. On the day I wanted to go, however, there were no direct flights, so I had to go via Amsterdam.

After a relaxing two hour stopover, I toddled over the tarmac toward the awaiting ‘plane. I let out a small, nervous giggle as I approached. There was a large patch on the side that had been covered over with gaffer tape. The bright blue KLM livery of the other ‘planes was, on this one, faded – reminiscent of greater days traversing the sky. And, on each wing, sat an engine sprouting four propellers – unloved and uncared for.

In truth, the ‘plane I was looking at would have had a certain amount of shabby charm had I not been about to entrust my life to it.

I boarded the ‘plane, and quickly began to feel like a rockstar. Of its 12 seats, precisely one was taken up. By me. The total person count on the ‘plane was 5 – Pilot, Co-Pilot, 2 stewardesses, and me. The pilot dispensed with such niceties as telling me what was happening over the intercom, he just yelled it over his shoulder in what appeared to be a half crazed, half stoned Dutch accent. Revving the engine, he directed the ‘plane towards the runway where, with much strain and noise, we departed Amsterdam Schipol and headed for Aarhus.

Having the pick of all the seats, I chose to on a window seat next to the wing. Here, I had prime cloud-gazing opportunity, and the view through the cockpit window wasn’t bad either. Half an hour in to the flight, the stewardess has given me a hob nob (no, not like that), and we’re all going along marvellously.

Until I look out of the window. One of the rivets in the engine was coming loose. Not just loose, coming out. There’s another hour til we land and, by my calculation, another half an inch of screw to go. In short, the plane is going to fall out of the sky and we’re all going to die.

So what did I do? Did I tell someone? Did I make both stewardesses an offer they couldn’t refuse for their dying moments? Did I call someone to register my final words? Maybe I wrote something down to be found in the crash?

No. I sat, and stared transfixed at the screw for the rest of the flight. Which, as you may be able to guess, ended uspectacularly and entirely without incident. I eventually disembarked an hour later; pale, shaky and terrified I’d have to get the same ‘plane on the way back.

Which, of course, I did.

And that’s how a screw changed my ‘plane journey...
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 17:37, 3 replies)
About 6 months ago. Tube from Victoria to Paddington. Chavvy scum. Phone. SHIT RnB. I want to kill either myself or her.

6 hours later, on a bus, just leaving after visiting Warwick Uni. Chinese-looking gangsta type. Pulls out the phone. This can't be good....

"Hey Jude, don't make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better"


*sigh* I'm home

Ended up going to Durham in the end though.
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 17:15, Reply)
I have an american passport
With stamps from cuba, russia, china, india, pakistan and iran...... the looks on the passport monkeys face when he leafs through is priceless.

Mind you, I do walk funny for a couple days afterwards, and the black vans that follow me everywhere are a bit annoying.

I do genuinely have these stamps in my american passport, I go out of my way to take it out and get it stamped, even when I'm travelling on my british passport. My last trip back to the states was great bar the two hours they kept me in the airport and questioned me over my travel details for the past three years (all business).

The bit that makes this all worthwhile was sitting down and listening to the 'interrogators' asking me the same damn question over and over again. I was seriously tempted to start 'pleading the fifth' at them and see what would happen, but my british upbringing meant that I just continued to suffer through the complete crap display of Gestapo-esque mind games.

Even got told to be more 'careful' in my travelling in the future.


(inspired by CaptainCuntyBollocks below)
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 17:14, 5 replies)
Seeing as I was posting things about fire in the one of the emergency cord board
Two stories to do with trips to Canada and the US.

First one was in May 2003 when my friend and me decided it was a really good idea to time two weeks holiday staying with my Dad in Pennsylvania to coincide with the last two Pg. 99 shows, and the two Darkest Hour album launch shows in Richmond, DC and Baltimore (side note - it might look like a easy driving distance on a map, but US maps are bigger than UK maps. Don't plan to drive Allentown to Richmond and back each night. [side note 2 - don't go for the cheaper hire car without unlimited mileage if you're planning to drive 700 plus miles a day]). Seeing as we were looking for the cheapest flight we could, ended up flying with Air India.

The flight out wasn't actually that bad - plenty of room as it was half full and veggie Indian food that didn't taste half bad after being re-heated. Admittedly, the fact the arm rests still had ash trays in, but with screws holding them shut was kind of disconcerting. The flight back was the horrible one. Food this time around was bad, bad, bad, bad, bad, bad, bad veggie indian food. Flight is also full, apparently half full of kids as well. And it's a red eye flight. Screaming children, toilets starting to look like a dirty protest about an hour into the flight, strange smells, and to top it all off - the guy sitting next to my mate starts cutting his toenails.

Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping.

Not good.

Second one was less terrible, but just stupefyingly dull, and actually made me wish for British trains. Getting the Amtrak from Toronto to New York, a journey that is meant to take 13 hours and 5 minutes - leaving at 8:30am and getting in at 9:35pm. 450 miles, 13 hours. So yeah, a slow train service to start with any way. Americans don't seem to understand the concept of trains being a relatively quick way to travel, and convenient to compete with the car. Oh no, an average speed of about 35 miles an hour is perfectly okay.

Late leaving to start with, and then we get to the Canadian/American border. And sit there.
And sit there.
And sit there.
And sit there.
And after about 45 minutes they let all foreign nationals know that they have to get off the train and go to the Border Post. Where about 10 of us sit.
And sit.
And sit.
And sit.
And sit.
Takes about 45 minutes to get through the four groups of people that were there. Unfortunately, we now seem to have missed our slot in the train system, so we're stuck behind a goods train. Goods trains run even slower than the 'fast' passenger services. Didn't actually get an announcement about this, just figured out we were running seriously behind schedule when I noticed we were getting to towns a few hours behind the time on the timetable. Find the guard, ask what's going on, find out about the goods train and that we 'might' get into New York around 1am.

I'm meant to be getting a connecting train out to Pennsylvania at about 10pm. That's the last train that goes where I need to go, so I ask what the train company's going to be able to do about it. The guard's response (and I'm paraphrasing here) was "What the fuck do you expect if you travel by train - to get places on time? You can do what the hell you like when we get to New York."

Finally made it to New York about 1:30am, and managed to sort a lift with the last few minutes of battery in my phone. 25mph odd on average.

So yeah, don't take the Amtrak if you actually need to get anywhere on time - apparently they don't really do that.
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 16:56, 3 replies)
bugger mugger
Living in London, and getting the tube every single day, mostly at rush hour each time, you're bound to come across a few... characters.

So i'm on the tube having just gone shopping in a whole World of PCs, so i have several bags of expensive looking computer parts. I'm minding my own business when an asian guy sits across from me on the inward facing seats. and he fixes me with an unmoving stare.
now asian people tend to have quite deep set dark eyes, which, when a guy wont take his eyes off you is a little unsettling.
you know that sensation where you feel like you're pinned to your seat like a butterfly in a museum? that was me.
you know that feeling where you've never found that map of the underground quite so interesting in your entire life? that was me.

As the train pulled into the station i bolted out of the doors, trying to put some distance between me and him. at this point i didn't know if the guy was just a bit odd in the head, and i didn't care to find out.

I got to the escalator and felt something like a hand knocking against my back pocket. it was a bit too hard and deliberate to be accidental so a quick crafty look behind me and, yep, he's right behind me.
'Bollocks!' I think 'He's trying to pickpocket me! He's a really creepy, unsubtle theif.'
so i put my hands in my pockets to protect my phone and wallet and went on my way.

I got out of the station and crossed the road, not checking to see if he was behind me, but there was enough people around to make it impossible to really try anything. I got to my bus stop and waited for the bus, turning around to see him a few feet away on the phone facing the other way.
'Shit!' I inwardly panic 'He's calling a mate and they're gonna mug me as soon as i get off the bus!'

So i while he's facing the other way i (practically) run round the other side of the bus shelter so he won't know where i've gone.
'phew!' think I,

A few seconds later he appears round the corner, still on the phone, sees me, hangs up and sits next to me.
'FUCK!' i scream silently
I put my hands in pockets to protect again, and hope i wont have to fight for my life soon...

He turns to me and he says in an almost perfect sterotypical indian accent
'is dat your natural hair colour?'
'eh? oh...err...no, it's dyed.'
(this was back when i had my beautiful fringe)
'it's very silky, very shiny.'
i start thinking, 'dude, you're either trying to rob me or you're trying to fuck me. and either way i'm having none of it!'

He turns to me again and mutters behind a hand
'ae y gy?'
'are. you. gay?'
'ohhh! ha. no'
'i like your lips rings. very...'
'haha! how does that make me gay?'

And with that he stood up, and stalked off into the night, presumably to find his next effeminate, sexually-confused looking victim.
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 16:53, Reply)
i have had the priviledge to witness
the sick wave..

literally a wave of vom passing from one side of the ferry toilets to the other - and back again.

if its a sunday and the forecast is windy, avoid the lunch like the 500 passengers on that cherbourg to portsmouth service didnt.

honestley, chunder everywhere.
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 16:52, 1 reply)
That Amsterdam Mini Cruise.
You must have seen the P&O mini cruise from Hull to Amsterdam.
Its brilliant. You get on the ferry in the evening, get lashed up in the bar. Fall asleep, get up and youre in Rotterdam. Get the get coach to Amsterdam, get stoned pished and shagged during the day. Then get the coach back and spend the next night on the ferry, arriving back in Hull for the morning.

Brilliant! So me and the now ex g/f took the trip.

Going out, no problems. Had some drinks in the bar, saw a movie, had some more drinks. Shagged each other senseless, all before the ferry even started moving out of Hull! Waay!

Got to Amsterdam and sampled the local delicacies. I dont really remember much of the coach journey back to Rotterdam, except for I was hearing these other youths sniggering, and I was really paranoid they were sniggering at me. (Dont do drugs kids)

Got on the ferry and we had pre-paid dinner. So after being a bit drunk and stoned, I had the munchies and had the spicy chicken curry. Washed down with a bottle of white.

Then hit the bar, bounced up and down a bit on the dancefloor. Found some geezers who had smuggled some weed back, so was up on the top deck having a share of that :)

Then finally collapsed into bed at a respectable 2am. At 3am im awoken by the g/f hurling her guts up in the toilet. So I called her a lightweight and laughed as she stood there covered in her own puke, sweating like a bitch, and looking rather worse for wear.

I turned over and went back to being unconcious.

Until.. a couple of hours later im awoken again. The ferry is swaying in the middle of the north sea. My stomach was burning up. Hmmmm. not feeling good here... Ooooh shit! Food escape!!!!

Aaaaall over the place it went. Proper projectile vomiting. Urghh not good.I appologise to the cleaners I really do. They being a ferry I'm sure theyre used to mopping carrot chunks off the ceiling.

So there I was for the next 4 hours as daylight started to break fighting the mrs for the toilet. When still drunk, and sick you cling onto the toilet as its something solid.. But this one wasnt. it was going up.. and down... up and down.. urghhhhh more puuke!

I didnt bother with breakfast.
There was then a queue for UK immigration. I had just had a good spew again (even tho there was nothing left to spew) and then had to wait in the queue. By the time I got to show my passport. My stomach was doing summersaults and I looked so green and rough, I got a few questions as to my identity!

And then had a 90 minute drive home urghh . Bleaaauuraakk.. Have you ever driven and hurled at the same time? its quite amusing! Probably more dangerous than talking on a mobile phone.

Now was this P&Os finest Spicy Chicken Curry that caused it. Or Amsterdams finest hash brownies?

I'll let you decide that one!
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 16:48, Reply)
I was shagging my ex on a miniature railway
The other side of the estuary by Barmouth.

It had personal tiny carriages, and the track went on for a good couple of miles.

Anyway, we were going at it hammer and tongs, and just getting to the point of no return, when the train passed a family waving at the passengers.

The last image I saw just as I blew my wad, was a little girl of about 5, and her horrified parents desperately trying to cover her eyes from my "just cum" face.

Pretty traumatic all round really..
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 16:47, 9 replies)
Vomit in a bag
I was going to reply to Dr forgot-her-password with this, but... ach. We've been away, so I'm prepared to flood the board a bit.

Stuck in the departure lounge at Ataturk airport a couple of years ago, my limited enjoyment of a poor lunch was reduced by the realisation that I was sat opposite a family the daughter of which was vomiting, quietly yet unmistakably and apparently unstoppably, into a bag. I looked up and around, desperate for something to distract me from the pre-pubescent chunder-fountain.

The only other thing to look at was the security men kicking the shit out of someone.

Happy days...

EDIT: Hat-trick!
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 16:35, 1 reply)
CaptainCB reminds me...
This story is possibly apocryphal. It concerns a reputable philosopher in the Oxford tradition who had been invited to the States to give a series of lectures.

At immigration, the standard question at the time was something along the lines of "Do you intend the overthrow of the United States government through violence or sedition?"
Professor Reputable looked at the ceiling for a moment and replied, "Sedition, I think."
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 16:26, 4 replies)
More seasick.
I was once on a cross-Channel ferry with my family; we were going to France for a holiday.

The crossing was rough: very windy, with a big swell. I thought that this was great fun - I've always loved stormy weather. By contrast, Dad was looking greyer with every minute. He was fighting gallantly, but we knew what was coming.

The moment came when it became clear to him that he could no longer fight the inevitable. Since the door to the deck was closer than the loos, he decided to go outside to set his lunch free.

Leaning over the rail, he opened the bomb-doors and deployed his payload... which went SPLAT! into the face of the man a couple of metres downwind. A man with whom, it would turn out, we were going to be sharing a campsite for the subsequent week.
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 16:21, 5 replies)
Making up for lost time.
I present to you the amazing tale of:

Kaol and the Locusts of Doom

The story picks up two years ago, when our hero, the dashing Kaol, was at university.
Not owning a car, he had to make do with public transport.
Those busses were, for a while, the bane of his existence.

In his student room he had two scorpions, several praying mantids and a lizard. These dear animals needed live locusts (of varying sizes) to eat, which meant that Kaol had to buy boxes of live, jumpy insects from a shop in a near-by town.

One day he went to the shop and got three boxes, one of tiny locusts, one of small locusts, and one of large flying-capable locusts.
These boxes were put into a carrier bag, and he set off onto the bus.

Getting onto the bus he found that the only seat on the bus was next to a rather pretty young lady from the same university as him.
They got chatting, and he mentioned that he was DJing later that week. She asked him when and where it was, and so he went to get a flier out of his canvas messenger-type bag.

His mistake:
He asked her to hold the bag with the locusts in while he did this.

Her mistake:
She looked into the bag.

The shop-peoples mistake:
They hadn't put the lid on the small locusts properly.

So, our dashing young hero looked up as the girl started screaming as a few dozen small, jumpy and yellow insects leapt for freedom out of the bag and onto her face and hair.

If you're reading this Lucy, I'm so, so sorry.
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 16:18, 3 replies)
Not public transport but american immigration
Absolute cunts of the highest order. i hope they all get blow to fucking bits by some mad crazed suicide bomber because allegedly that what i looked like yesterday. Now, i look as pasty as pasty could be and i look as threatening as a bunny in a pillow case but these fucknuts took it upon themselves to start interrogating me like i was Osama himself for a fucking hour. Poor mrs cuntybollocks was not aware of my downfall in the immigration office, she was worried sick and the cunt's would not let me turn my phone on to tell her of my woe. Not only are they patronising cunt's they are also incredibly thick, the same question was repeated and repeated "why are you here?". after the ninth repetition of this question good old British sarcasm got the better of me and i said "For the kind and understanding Hospitality" MISTAKE..... i honestly thought it was marigolds and ky jelly time at this point.

An hour later they finally let me go and claim it was due to my irish sounding surname and my place of birth (fucking Luton) as they have been terror suspects from this area. So in short the worst, annoying and most humiliating of my short existence.
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 16:17, 6 replies)
Inspired by K2k6...
I've never been seasick, but I lave been on a boat journey between Zanzibar and Dar-Es-Salaam on which the thrum of the catamaran's engine was drowned out by the sound of a score of Swahilis retching... Not the loveliest sound I've heard.
(, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 16:17, Reply)

This question is now closed.

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